Even in their sleep, the wolves heard the far-off call of the ravens and knew that the big birds had spotted prey. Heads popped out from under bushy tails and ears pricked up, alert. Crooked Ear stood and shook the balsam needles from his coat, then, quivering with anticipation, he raised his voice in chorus with the pack. In the excitement, the wolves chased their own tails and nipped at each other until a stare from Seraph’s yellow eyes silenced them. They followed him as he loped toward the voices of the ravens, leaving the new mother standing at the entrance to the den. She sighed and returned to her pups.
Crooked Ear watched the other wolves closely. They all took their orders from Seraph, a glare from his eyes rooting them to the spot or telling them to advance. The limited hunting that Crooked Ear had done with his parents had taught him little. Now he was learning that every member of the pack had a part to play in surrounding the prey, worrying it, and tiring it so that the kill could be made without injury to the wolf itself. He was learning patience, planning, and stealth. He was learning the way of the wolf.
They approached the elk from downwind, long strands of saliva drooling onto their paws. With bodies low to the ground, and moving so as not to snap a twig, they skirted the herd, fanning out, eyes and noses searching every detail. The cows were heavy with young. In a few weeks the newborns would be easy targets, but the experienced wolves knew that right now the females would not go down easily. They would fight.
The elk sniffed the air, their senses attuned to any noise or smell that might indicate the presence of a predator. They gingerly inched away from the oval depressions in the snow where they had slept, away from the yellow, urine-stained craters, away from the safety of the cedar stand, out to where straw-coloured seed heads stood tall above a tangled thatch of winter-damaged grass. Some pawed the ground to remove snow from the matted pasture. Others wrapped their tongues around tall stems and chewed, their jaws moving from side to side in a faltering motion.
The wolves spotted an old bull, moving stiffly from one patch of snow-covered grass to another. Its ribs and haunches protruded through rough hair, its mane was matted, and its antlers, which would be formidable weapons later in the season, were harmless velvet-covered buds.
The wolves closed in. A cow, her nostrils twitching, caught the first scent of danger. She raised her tail, warning the others with the flash of white. Eyes wide with panic, the elk moved closer together. The wolves stood tall. Realizing they were surrounded on three sides by their most feared predator, the herd bolted for the only opening in sight. The wolves exploded toward the old bull, cutting it off from the panicked herd and driving it toward Seraph, who waited in the undergrowth. When the bull elk was almost upon him, Seraph leaped, sinking his fangs into its throat.
Crooked Ear joined the others, jumping onto its back and clinging with his teeth as the bull spun and bucked. Finally, another wolf grabbed the elk’s muzzle, clamping down over its nose and mouth. Desperate to breathe, the elk thrashed its head from side to side, lifting the wolf from the ground and sweeping him back and forth, but the wolf held firm. With a thud that shook the earth, the old elk fell heavily on his side.
There was a brief moment of silence.
Then powerful jaws crunched through bone and flesh.
Cloven hooves pawed the air.
Legs flailed in a desperate bid to run.
And life poured from the elk into the wolves.
Ravens watched from the trees as the wolves ripped into the soft underbelly of the old bull elk. Seraph turned on the others, growling ferociously, driving them back a few paces, where they snarled and squabbled among themselves. He pushed aside steaming intestines and tore the liver out of the body cavity. With two chomps of his massive teeth it was gone. Pushing his bloodied nose back into the tangle of guts, he rooted through to find the heart. Then, with a barely perceptible motion of his ears, he allowed the pack to join him.
The wolves snatched whatever was closest while trying to maintain their own pecking order. Crooked Ear was at the bottom. Even though he had played his part in bringing down the elk, he had to remain on the edge of the kill. Finally, as stomachs started to fill, Crooked Ear was allowed into the circle to feed.
Satisfied, with skin pulled taught across their distended bellies, the wolves ambled homeward, leaving the ravens tearing at the bulging intestines. A red vixen approached on silent pads. The ravens attacked and she retreated to wait her turn, along with those who had caught the scent on the wind and were still travelling toward the kill.
Within hours nothing would remain of the old elk except for a few fragments of bone and fur.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spring was on its way, yet winter was not willing to relinquish its hold. Despite the warmer temperatures that had melted all but the most obstinate patches of snow, the trees remained bare. Then, suddenly, violets wearing hats of dried leaves popped up from the forest floor and bronze beech leaves that had rasped on slim branches all winter long were pushed aside by the force of new buds. A green carpet rolled across the landscape from south to north and, almost overnight, the school lawn became verdant. Mother Hall’s daffodils pierced the ground with their spear-like leaves and within days their yellow trumpets nodded in the sun.
It was a bright Thursday morning in May. Mother Hall entered the dormitory, her arms full of ironed shirts. This was unusual because the boys knew that Sunday was the day for clean clothes, not Thursday. Cleanliness was next to godliness and both these things coincided with chapel on Sundays. Mother Hall seemed jittery, in fact, a bundle of nerves. Promising a whipping to any boy who got his shirt dirty, she announced that an important man would be visiting them in the classroom, so they would stay inside all day and had better be good, or else.
Around noon, a horse-drawn carriage rolled through the gates. Father Thomas greeted the visitor and escorted him to the staff dining room.
“I’d like you all to meet our school governor,” he said to the assembled staff.
Mother Hall made a small curtsy. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Governor,” she said coyly in her most refined language. “You must be hungry after your long journey. We’ve prepared luncheon and the girls are waiting to serve, so please sit down.”
The governor unbuttoned his coat and Mother Hall helped wrestle the sleeves from his arms. Father Thomas watched the guest settle his ample backside on the chair, and he sent up a silent prayer that the slender mahogany legs would withstand the weight.
“Grace!” he said in a rush, wanting to get through the meal before disaster struck. The boys bowed their heads and Father Thomas recited the shortest prayer he had ever uttered. “Heavenly Father, thank you for the food we are about to enjoy. Amen.”
“We produce all our own food here, Governor,” Mother Hall said as five schoolgirls, their brown hands covered in white gloves, served roast pork, squash, potatoes, and gravy.
“The children are surely spoiled by such abundance,” the governor said, spreading his linen napkin over his rotund mid-section.
After several distracted bites and swallows, during which conversation was definitely not a priority, the governor directed his conversation to Father Thomas. “The board of governors is very pleased with the work that you are doing here, Father. I’m sure you’ll agree with me that the residential school system is working wonderfully well. The government builds the schools and provides the funding, and you, at Bruce County,
